


once more, with feeling

by direSin



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 22:51:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11724240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/direSin/pseuds/direSin
Summary: “I see now. You’ve come to comfort me,” Geralt cuts in, really not in a mood to hear how Ciri is better off in Nilfgaard.“I’m the soul of comfort,” she agrees, meanwhile giving him a slow, thorough once-over that makes him want to squirm. He can't remember the last time he felt self-conscious, if he ever did, but this is damn awkward.





	once more, with feeling

**Author's Note:**

> On my first play-through I started the Kaer Morhen sequence too early, inadvertently failing The Last Wish. It made me wonder how things might have played out without the game’s obvious constraints

Dusk is falling by the time Geralt rides up to the tavern, the clouds in the west a deep purple-gray. He can hear raucous laughter and singing from the inside as he tethers Roach to the porch railing. He gives her a quick pat on the neck and walks up the steps.

The door swings open and shut again and a burly figure shoves past him. “Move, man! Ploughin’ beer’s naught but water.”

Turning away from the sounds of piss striking dirt Geralt opens the door. Inside the air is heavy with wine fumes and the reek of unwashed bodies. A noisy bunch is gathered in one corner, clanking their mugs and belting out _The Lilies Proud,_  out of unison and out of tune. Temerians, having regained their country by the grace of Nilfgaard, are celebrating full on. He’ll be hearing them for hours to come, he’s sure, but it’s that or ride out after he gets some food and he doesn’t feel like traveling again tonight.

“What will it be?” a dour-faced barkeep calls out when he nears the counter.

“Room for the night. A hot bath. Food, for me and the horse.”

The man looks him up and down with narrowed eyes. “Don’t want no trouble 'ere.”

“Then you’d better not piss me off.” Geralt only just keeps his voice down. Gods, he’s so tired of this shit. Maybe Ciri has the right of it after all. More often than not it just isn’t worth it.

He pays the man - who thaws a little at the sight of coin - and finds a table where he can sit with his back to the wall and have a full view of the place. He plops down on the bench, his knees protesting, his whole body sore and stiff. He spent less than a day in the saddle; he can’t remember ever feeling this worn out for no good reason. The awful months of looking for Ciri and dealing with the Wild Hunt are catching up with him. He could sure as hell use a break.

Except what would he do with himself? Holing up in a whorehouse for a week isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be; he tried that before, several times over. Kaer Morhen is an empty shell, Dandelion and Zoltan went back to Novigrad he’d as soon avoid like the plague, and Yen - He has no idea where Yen is. He hasn’t seen her since Undvik.

It strikes him that, apart from Ciri, those three are the only people in his life who mean anything to him. If pressed he could add Eskel and Lambert to that list but still, it’s pathetically short. He contemplates that as he works his way through two helpings of half-decent stew, tuning out the drunken shouting but keeping an eye on the clowns so he can _Axii_ the fuck out of them before they become a problem. Mood he’s in, he's not sure he’ll stop until they are bloody smears on the floor if it comes to it.

He forces down the tide of aimless anger and chases it with the dregs of his ale. That’s enough self-pity for one evening. He rises and heads for the stairs, skirting a couple grappling in the doorway.

"Say, sweetheart, been lookin’ all night for a stiff prick." A woman leers at him through tumbled blond hair. “Got one ‘neath that leather?” She makes to back him into the wall.

 _Fuck off_ is almost out of his mouth before he swallows it back down. He makes a face, sidestepping her, and walks on.

Upstairs the room is small and unlit, with a tiny window overlooking a frozen river. The door has no lock but the noise drops down to a bearable level once he shuts it behind him. The bed that lies under the window is surprisingly wide and the wooden tub pushed to the middle of the floor looks large enough to submerge in if not stretch out. The water is still steaming faintly, the best thing he’s seen all day. Geralt props his swords against the bedside table and lights the candles in their clay holders with a sign.

A hot bath is a luxury he could live without but it feels like heaven, and he lets his head fall back and lies there a while, until all the anger seeps away. It leaves him empty and brittle. He rolls his shoulders, sighing, and reaches for the bar of soap. His stomach tightens as he runs the soap across his chest, catching a nipple, and he pauses. Probably not the worst idea. He isn’t hard but that won’t take long. He washes his hair and scrubs the dirt from his body before he puts the soap aside.

His cock stirs against his palm and he wraps his fingers around it. He tightens his grip, trying to speed things along, and as it grows heavy and full in his hand he’s in Kaer Morhen again, like in that old dream, drowsing off in the bathtub until the damned lobster pinches his balls. He tells Yennefer he isn’t amused and she makes him get out of the bath, only when he does she isn’t lounging in the chair with a book. She’s right behind him, wrapping her arms around him, and he presses back against her and it’s so good to feel her again, gods, so right. She touches him like she's been waiting her whole life to do it and he can’t remember how he got by without it, can’t imagine never feeling this. Her hands slide down his stomach and she says -

“Hello, Geralt. How’s your bath?”

It’s a miracle he doesn’t turn the tub over in an effort to pry his hand off his cock. He was _this close_ \- Fuck’s sake, of all the times for her to show up, out of the blue. Geralt closes his eyes and breathes slowly, in and out, before he opens them again. “Yen,” he says through his teeth. “Do feel free to come in.”

Yennefer shoots him a withering look. “I might’ve given you some warning if you haven’t been playing hard to get.”

He hasn’t been, not really. He hasn’t kept her informed of his whereabouts, true, but then he wasn’t aware she had any interest in them. For weeks she didn't say a word to him beyond what was necessary, save for the one conversation that involved a broken bed and ended with him having a swim in a freezing lake. He figured she must be upset with his refusal to participate in her djinn hunt, and he feels a little guilty about that - but only a little. There was just too much going on for him to play her errand boy, and besides, taming one djinn had been enough to last him a lifetime, thank you.

“How _did_ you find me?” he asks as he bends his knees and sits up in the tub. For all the good it does his dignity.

“I’m an all-knowing, all-seeing sorceress. I should think you’d have learned this by now.” He glares at her and she rolls her eyes. “Ciri,” she says, holding up a xenovox. “We spoke this afternoon. She told me she’d left you in White Orchard. You wouldn’t camp in the woods in winter and there are only so many taverns within a day’s ride.”

“I thought those things only work short-distance.”

“They had, until I found the time to look into it. You can speak with her too, you know, whenever you wish. Except that you’ve all but cut her off from your life.” She comes closer and perches on the edge of the tub; her skirt is slit up to the thigh on one side, showing a couple inches of pale smooth skin that he can't look at too long. “Must you make it so hard on her, Geralt? And on yourself, for that matter? This doesn’t have to be a tragedy. She’s alive and well and doing what she feels is right. Safer, too, I daresay - ”

“I see now. You’ve come to comfort me,” Geralt cuts in, really not in a mood to hear how Ciri is better off in Nilfgaard.

“I’m the soul of comfort,” she agrees, meanwhile giving him a slow, thorough once-over that makes him want to squirm. He can’t remember the last time he felt self-conscious, if he ever did, but this is damn awkward. Especially when she raises her eyebrows at him and adds, “Although it looks as if you’re quite equal to the task on your own.”

The mocking lilt in her voice snaps him out of it at once. “Yeah,” he says, sprawling in the tub again; if she wants an eyeful, who is he to deny her. “It’s exactly as it looks. You caught me with my hand on my cock. Now what?”

“Now,” she says, “you might as well keep going. Unless you prefer the real thing?”

Geralt blinks. Did she just - What the hell? She’s always been refreshingly blunt but there’s blunt and there’s Yennefer offering herself up, apropos of nothing. After months of treating him like he’s an extension of his swords who is also occasionally good for wading through the sewers. It makes him wonder if she’s flying on some kind of drug. She doesn’t look it, though. She looks her normal self, not a hair out of place, glamours applied so expertly you can hardly tell she’s wearing any - poised and elegant and beautiful as ever.

“Why?” he asks, frowning.

She shrugs. “Because I can.”

“Just like that, huh.”

“I suppose I could buy you a mug of ale first. Or would you rather a lobster to the balls?” She darts an amused glance his way. “Really, Geralt, that’s your fantasy? The mind boggles.”

Right. Of course she would pick up on that and of course she would have no qualms about doing it. Just as well. He can use a reminder of how their relationship really works. Worked. Whatever. “The fantasy was you being nice,” he says and it comes out bitter, sharper than he intended. He stares over her head at an obscenity someone carved into the wall. The lingering arousal and the scent of her, achingly familiar, aren’t helping any.

She casts her eyes down and looks up again. “I can be nice,” she says. 

Geralt snorts. “Or you could just tell me what you need.”

“I promise you there’s nothing.” Now she looks hurt, of all things. She leans close, closer, barely a handbreadth from his face. “I want you,” she says, looking straight into his eyes.

He tries to ignore the sharp little thrill running up his spine but it’s no use. Who is he kidding? Whatever game she’s playing, it doesn’t matter. It’s Yen and it’s always been Yen. He's been following her for so long, wanting her, loving her, losing her, trying to hold on to her.

She gets up and walks over to the bed, takes the towel he left there and holds it up like an invitation. He goes to her; he’s still half-hard but there doesn’t seem to be much point in modesty.

She pats him dry, her hands stroking him through the cloth. Her mouth is on his throat, catching the droplets of water, and he can’t get enough air to breathe. She drops the towel and slides down his body until his cock bumps against her lips. His hips jerk and she looks up at him through her lashes and says, “Is that how you want it, Geralt? _Nice_?” and swipes her tongue over the head in a quick, teasing lick.

“ _Gods_ ,” he says, shaking all over. She takes him deeper and he has to bite the inside of his cheek just to make it through the first shock of it. Her mouth slides up and down on him and it’ll be over too soon if she keeps it up and he rasps, “Yen - Yen, don’t - ” but when has she ever listened to him? She hollows her cheeks and sucks, running her hands up his thighs and over his ass, and fuck, fuck, this is going to finish him in moments. “Please,” he tries, threading his fingers into her hair.

The cold air on his cock is a shock of a different kind and it’s not even really cold, just not her mouth. “Are you begging me not to suck you off?” she asks dryly, rising to her feet. 

He’s too far gone for humor. He lets her half-walk, half-push him backwards toward the bed, sinking down on it when she shoves him over with her hip. He watches her clothes melt away and reaches for her, dumb with wanting her. His stubble is very nearly a beard and he worries, in the back of his mind, that it might scratch her as he kisses up her throat until he can get at her mouth. She doesn’t complain. She reaches for his cock and he kisses harder when her fingers tighten. She wasn’t lying; she wants him, he can smell it, and he spares a moment to thank whichever gods must be keeping him after all.

He’s well into desperate by the time he touches her cunt and she’s hot and slick and she digs her fingers into his shoulders, demanding more. When he pushes inside her she tilts her hips to meet him and wraps her legs around him. He fucks into her, grinding deep, and she scores his back with her nails. He shudders, breath ragged. She matches his thrusts, clenching around him, pulling his head down to tug on his lower lip with her teeth, and it’s too much, too much. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to keep some control and failing, and she catches his cry in her mouth as he comes.

When he can breathe again he slides down the bed and puts his mouth on her, tasting her, tasting himself on her. He flicks his tongue against her clit, just rough enough that she can really feel it, and he can tell the friction is sparking through her as she presses her shoulders into the bed, her hips arching up against his face. He licks into her and she says unsteadily, “Yes. Yes - Geralt - ” His tongue moves over her and she rocks against him, breathing hard, almost gasping as she comes undone under his mouth. He sucks at her clit and doesn’t ease up until she stops shaking. 

“I’ve almost forgotten what a spectacular fuck you are,” she says hazily as he dries his face on the sheets and hauls himself up to stretch out next to her.

He huffs a laugh because that’s so Yen. “I’ve missed you,” he says, too pleasure-wrecked to hold back. She finds his mouth by feel and kisses him, long and sweet.

“Have you really?” she says when she breaks the kiss. Her eyes are dark and serious.

It distracts him from sinking into blissful stupor. He turns his head on the pillow so he can see her better. “Yen, what’s going on?” he asks. He feels her stiffen beside him and his stomach does a funny little flip. “For once, just tell me.”

She nods tightly, sitting up. “You might recall the mage I’d mentioned a while back, on Skellige. Amos var Ypsis.”

“The one with the djinn? I remember.” He feels considerably more contrite about this now. He did take the time to sort out just about everyone else’s problems. In hindsight it seems so childish and petty. _You’re not the center of my world. Watch me ignore you._ He sighs. “Look, I’m sorry about that. I - “

“It’s all right, Geralt.”

He slants a quick glance at her; he knows better than anyone she can hold grudges like nobody’s business. “You’re not mad at me?” 

“Oh, I was. Because I didn’t quite realize how crazy things had been for you, not until later.” She runs a hand down his back, the gesture shockingly tender for her, and now he really feels like an ass. “At any rate, it doesn’t matter. I imagine I’d’ve had an easier time of it with you there but I managed.”

“So what, you have a pet djinn now? Congratulations, I guess.”

“That wasn’t what I was after.” She tilts her head, her hair spilling heavy and dark over her collarbones. “Only a djinn can remove another djinn’s spell.” 

“You mean my wish,” Geralt says slowly.

“Have you ever wondered what it might be like without it? If it’s only the magic binds us together?”

“Yeah.” It’s not something he can deny, or wants to.

“Well,” she says, “you needn’t wonder anymore. The djinn broke the spell in exchange for its freedom.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Because I don’t feel any different.” He holds his breath, waiting to see what will happen. She leans down and kisses him, soft and lingering, no teeth or tongue. He lies silent, thinking it over. She’s here. It has to count for something. “Is that why?” he asks after a moment. “Was this supposed to be some sort of farewell, in case I - “

“I hadn’t planned on it, if that’s what you mean. You rather ambushed me. I wasn’t even trying to read your thoughts. You were broadcasting like a beacon.” She gives a little shrug. “Call it the last indulgence if you like.”

“I don’t want to call it the last anything.”

The smile she turns on him is warm as sunlight. “I wish to leave,” she says abruptly. “Go somewhere quiet, peaceful. Away from everything and everyone.”

“Everyone?” 

She reaches down and takes his hand. “Will you come with me?”

He exhales slowly. “You have to ask?”

“I thought it might be high time I started asking.”

Geralt turns his hand in hers and pulls her down to him. “I love you,” he says. The words come easy as breathing and she gives him another one of those dazzling smiles. He can feel its curve against his throat. It’s enough. It has to be enough.

He drifts off to the feel of her hair tickling his face, enjoying her weight as she lies half on him, half on the bed. He wakes to find her staring down at him, propped up on an elbow. “S’the matter?” he murmurs, searching her face.

“I love you too,” she says. “You know that, right?”

It takes him a moment to find his voice. “You told me, once.”

“It’s not made you choke on seafood this time.”

He smiles, remembering, and knots his fingers in her hair, dragging her down, wanting to kiss her. She nips at his neck instead, not gently. “Ow. What was that for?”

“It can’t all be sweetness and light.” Her eyes are dancing with amusement.

“Why the hell not?”

“You talk too much, for one thing.”

He laughs. “Of all the failings to accused me - ”

She pushes at his shoulder and he lets her roll him onto his back. “Put your mouth to better use,” she says curtly, straddling him, but her lips betray her with a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before I read the books (although I had run into the Thanedd banquet scene somewhere). I wouldn't have written it this way now since the quest significantly retcons the lore - but the story wouldn't make sense without the references to it, so it stays as it is


End file.
